Rationing My Reason

[6/4/12]  Coffee, heated in house this morning.  Light rain, outside, if you’ll believe.  Kelly, still in thought.  Only goal for today, print pages in addition to “posting” to “blog.” Yes, you can tell by the quoted marks I’m not much blog-happy this A.M.  Why?  Because I want to write, not blog.  So, in Kelly’s spirit, that’s what I’m doing.  Or, WILL do.  Wonder what’s going on at AV this morning, how they did yesterday.  Won’t lie, I’ll miss those grounds, the wines, the people on my side of bar as well as opposing.

Kelly sips her coffee, just watches the rain.  She knows she should be painting, but would rather just live instead, for now.  Enjoy her morning.  The coffee, a little hotter than she likes.  But the Miles Davis track bouncing around her Room makes her forget the degrees.  She thinks about the other night, that wine industry Art show in Glen Ellen, just past the Wolf House; How she didn’t sell anything, and how her account  lowers in level, like Tahoe snow in late-Spring throws.  She feels more domesticated than she’d ever want to be, right now.  So she just paints.  Whatever comes to mind.  Shooting for the free.  Noting in tow, no appointments tying, anchored.  Painting her way through this damp delirium.  She thought about her upper division French classes, when she had chances to study abroad.  Not going, to stay where she was, with her going nowhere of nowhere boyfriend, his hope to be a superstar dirt biker.  She thought nothing foul of his sight of riding, if he tok it seriously.  Which he didn’t.  He wanted fame, flash.  Celebrity.  He anesthetized himself in his own dream, capsuled in a custom coma.  She did eventually go, after graduating, seeing all the New she could.  She only sketched while on roads, boats, the hopping plane rides traveling just over borders (some flights lasting just over 25 mins.  But she always wonders what it would have been like to STUDY there, in any of those countries.  In those streets, at those aromatic spots (the cheeses, warmed breads, wines, other baked finds), in those libraries, the museums.  Kelly hated wishing, as she was one easily annoyed hearing people around her, or even passing, voice their longings, focusing more on what they didn’t have; This probably stemming from him, whose name she could barely stomach in thought, much less herself verbally recount.  Should she just book a flight, use what money she does have?  She could see herSelf skipping down that rectangular hall to the plane’s doorstep.  She’d think about, seriously think about it.

The coffee’s starting to wear off.  Need a mocha.  More of that bitter, excessively audacious black French doesn’t appeal.  Where is my morning mocha, for this manuscript?  Just down the street.  I need it, to feed these travel fantasies.  New on the list, Croatia.  Want to see all beaches, villages, try all wines.  I wouldn’t mind simply staring at those century-old walls in Dubrovnik.  This may even take precedence over Austria.  The travel bug legion about my inner rivers multiplies, diversifies.  The roads, flights, waters…  Much closer.  They have to be.  Wouldn’t mind keeping a travel blog, but a pocket journal pairs better with notions and elements adventurous, spontaneous, expeditious.  Technology would only muddle experiences.  And how romantic is that, dragging a laptop with me on my stomps?

Researching Croatia…  Have to go.  Thinking about the pictures Dad showed me the other night, feeling impatient.  Don’t want to leave life without sipping distant unfamiliar sights.